


Morpheum

by Winterlyn_Dow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Braavos, Dreams, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterlyn_Dow/pseuds/Winterlyn_Dow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The handsome man has his own version of events. He thinks you should know. A small companion piece to my longer ASoIaF story, "The Assassin's Apprentice" that will give some insight into what is going on in the head of the man who is arguably the *most* handsome assassin in all of Braavos. [Arya S/Handsome Man-sort of]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Assassin's Apprentice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271702) by [Winterlyn_Dow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterlyn_Dow/pseuds/Winterlyn_Dow). 



> This is a small (completely unnecessary) companion to "The Assassin's Apprentice" inspired partly by Junonia1991 who at one point suggested (demanded?) a handsome man one-shot. She has probably forgotten, but I have not. Or, more precisely, the handsome man has not forgotten. He has been insistent that I write this and will not allow me to concentrate on the final chapter of the larger story until I at least start this small side-project. He says his POV is "important" and that "people will want to know." He's sort of an arrogant bastard in that way. 
> 
> My idea is to give sporadic accounts of events of the larger story from HM's perspective, but it starts out as a small dip into his dreams as they follow certain late events in the original story (scattered bits of chapters 56-58). I plan to skip around chronologically in this story, but I will let you know which chapters/events from "The Assassin's Apprentice' I am referencing at the start of each chapter of "Morpheum". I hope this will minimize any confusion. 
> 
> Most of this will be unlikely to make much sense to anyone who hasn't read "The Assassin's Apprentice", making it a rather indulgent undertaking. Again, I blame the handsome man for that. I do not own anything in the ASoIaF universe, but I *do* own the fact that HM, in my mind, looks suspiciously like British male model David Gandy. I hope that neither he nor GRRM sue me...

* * *

 

_Don't you find, some of the time, there is always someone on your mind..._

_that shouldn't be at all._

* * *

Even in the handsome man's dreams, his brother usually bested him, but there were times when he found that it mattered little.

Times such as now.

First, there was a familiar refrain.

"Someday, you will tell me your name," she had said in a low voice, almost a whisper, by way of greeting him. It might have seemed odd to him during his waking hours, but here, it made perfect sense that she would suddenly appear in his bedchamber and make such a bold statement. She had done so on countless other nights, ever since he began training her at the wealthy man's manse.

He curled up one side of his mouth and then reached for her arms, pulling her down onto his bed; onto him.

"But I had rather hoped that you might name me," he replied before he buried his hand in all her loose, dark hair, urging her head toward him, finding her mouth with his own.

_Moonlight filtering in through his high window, illuminating one side of her face, poised just above his; outlining her lean body, wrapped in his sheet, her belly and chest pressed into his side. Long moments spent using his thumb, his lips, his tongue, to indulge his fascination with the sanguine bow of her mouth, the curve of her earlobe, and the contour of her neck. Reveling in his wonderment. Pursuing that gratified repose he longs to arrive at with her and finding it always just beyond his reach, for it can never be enough; he can never have enough of her. A soft sigh as she moves away from him, just a little; just enough to catch her breath. A cool palm, releasing his face and dragging its way down his neck, finding his collarbone and then tracing its length until it meets the pink, puckered flesh on his upper arm, a mark gifted him by that same hand._

"We are twins," he told her, turning his head so he could watch her one finger as it drifted over his arm, inspecting his scar.

She laughed, throaty, the ridicule undisguised but mild; gentle, like her tone when she next spoke.

"We are nothing alike."

Her voice became hoarse, as if she suffered a soreness of her throat. He was used to her voice as a commanding thing, or a mocking one, but _assured,_ at any rate, and just... _dense_ with her vigor and confidence. But he had kissed its strength away moments earlier, although the impish look on her face did not reveal that uncomfortable truth. She would never admit to weakness, even weakness as sweet as this.

"Our scars are the same," he insisted, his playful smirk appearing then. He lifted one hand and found the flaw in her white flesh, the small, silvered line on her right shoulder. He ran his fingers over the old hurt and lazily caressed it, as if to prove his point.

She recovered from her languor quickly.

"Hardly," she scoffed, her breathlessness gone, the rents and tatters of her tone knitting themselves together.

_Always scoffing at him, even in his dreams._

"Pray tell, little wolf, how are they different?"

"Well, for one, mine is on my shoulder and yours isn't."

"Near enough."

"You certainly love your _near enough_ ," she laughed, and then added, "when it suits you. But that doesn't change the fact that the arm and the shoulder are two entirely different locations."

"Even so, the flaws are so similar, it's as if fate herself has marked us for one another."

"Fate herself has marked us?" the girl repeated incredulously, her finger still absently stroking his healed wound. Her tiny, impish smile hardened just a bit under her raised eyebrows.

"Just so," he agreed. "Or, the Many-Faced god, if you prefer."

She snorted. He continued as if he had not heard her.

"And a mere matter of two finger widths seems such a little thing when compared to the plan Him of Many Faces has for us." As he spoke, he laid his two fingers at the outer edge of her scar, folding them over her arm and showing how their hurts were indeed so close as that to one another.

"There is the matter of how we sustained our injuries, too," the girl persisted. "I didn't get mine while assaulting a helpless acolyte in her own bedchamber."

"Helpless, bah!"

His small smile annoyed her; he could tell by the way her finger froze over his healed injury that had been her doing and the way she snapped her head, pulling her gaze away from the scar, settling it instead upon his face.

"Mine was obtained in an innocent accident, not an act of betrayal," she continued, pursing her lips after she had spoken.

"Not betrayal, surely!" he delicately admonished. "Was it betrayal? Really?"

As she pondered the question, he sought to influence her judgment, his hands moving then to either side of her neck, gently guiding it down to his mouth. His lips found her throat and he placed a brief and tender kiss there before withdrawing infinitesimally, preferring to trace the underside of her jaw with his nose, inhaling her scent. She shivered.

"Betrayal... No, I suppose it wasn't," she sighed after a moment. Her concession was reluctant but he could feel her relax a little at his touch. He read her mood and her want of their accord, their reconciliation, in the way the tension gradually bled out of her but then she pulled back with a quickness and her wide eyes narrowed as she fixed him with her gaze, the grey of those eyes rendered as black as pitch in the dim moonlight. Thoughtfully, she warned him, "Perhaps it wasn't betrayal then, but it would be now."

"Because you've forgiven me?" he whispered, sliding his arms around her waist and shifting her easily, so that she lay atop him then. The flats of his calloused palms pressed into the bare flesh of her back and he pulled her firmly against himself.

"Because I've forgiven you," she agreed in a hushed tone, adding, "and we are nothing alike." She finished speaking those words just before his mouth melded itself to hers, all hunger and thirst.

* * *

He awoke with a start. Surveying his dim surroundings, he realized that it was still early, the first light of dawn painting his chamber in shades of grey.

_Grey like her eyes,_ he thought before he caught himself. He snorted and rubbed hard at his face with his hands, trying to awaken fully so he could shake her off.

_Damn these bothersome dreams!_ he cursed inwardly, but the condemnation was halfhearted. After all, they weren't exactly unpleasant, even if they could not be readily translated to his reality. Orders were orders, and his orders were to make her ready and to see that the girl was not... _trifled with._ Besides that, there was her ridiculous notion that she was in love with his brother. Even if he were inclined to disobey his master in this matter ( _he was not so inclined_ ), her inane sense of loyalty would prevent her from doing anything which might displease her Lorathi master.

_He was quite certain that engaging in a tryst with the little wolf would qualify as something his brother would find most displeasing._

He ran his hands over his face again, this time in frustration.

_Duty,_ he thought grimly, and then threw his covers back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. It was time to dress. There was work to be done.

* * *

It started as it always did.

"Someday," she whispered in his ear, "you will tell me your name."

"My girl, I have no name," he told her as he watched her straighten. Her thighs brushed against the edge of his mattress.

"Liar."

He smirked up at her as she gazed down at his reclining form, her accusing eyes bright in the moonlight which poured through his window. He reached out and pulled her down atop him. As always, she wore her black and white acolyte's robe when she stood over him, but once he pulled her into his bed, she wore only her own fair flesh and was wrapped partially in his sheet. He ran his hand slowly down her side, and the friction was the sort of sin he was most willing to commit. His fingers came to rest on her hip, wrapping themselves around the graceful curve.

"You don't fool me," she murmured, resting her head between his shoulder and his chin. Her unbound hair was soft against his neck. "I see you."

He was amused, but there was a part of him which felt a creeping apprehension.

"And just what do you think you see, my girl?" he asked her, though there was a tiny voice inside of him warning him against the question.

_You will not like this,_ it said, but he was unable to stop himself from asking anyway.

He felt her fingers lightly sliding across his chest, the cool press of her flesh against his skin causing something to stir in him; something more than just lust; something that felt like... loneliness.

But that was absurd. He was not alone. She was here with him.

"I see that of all the men I have ever known, both within these walls and without, it is _you_ who has the most need."

"You have said that before," he muttered crossly, rolling them both over so that he was pinning her to the mattress.

He began to kiss the hollow of her throat. She giggled uncontrollably.

"You are simply terrible at this," he complained.

"We are all of us broken," she retorted through her laughter.

"This isn't right," he remarked, and his distress was like a distant rider, racing ever closer. It gained on him. "This is all wrong."

She shrugged.

* * *

She always found him in his dreams. He always lost her to his awakening.

The sounds of the seagulls outside of his window caused him to stir, their noisy calls like laughter bringing an abrupt end to his reverie.

It had been a short dream; too short. He had not been given much time for sleep, his duties keeping him away from his bed the previous night.

_Duty._

He stretched out in his bed, caught between the desire to go back to sleep so that he might invite his dreams again and the desire to get up, so that he might look for her.

He was always looking for her, without admitting to himself that that was what he was doing. Sometimes he found her, other times he simply sat waiting, his frustration growing when she failed to appear. The prior afternoon, he had caught her soaking in the bath. He enjoyed that more than was seemly, at least at first. He never saw more than a bare shoulder or some tiny, pruned toes when she propped her feet on the far end of the basin, but it was the idea that he _might_ see more which he found somehow irresistible. The was something so seductive about _possibility_ ( _and she was so full of_ possibility). Besides, her pruned toes were quite charming, really.

Of course, she had to ruin it, making it more serious than it needed to be, accusing him of... _something._ Some deficiency in his character. Some weakness he could not acknowledge. In that much, at least, they were twins. Neither could admit to any weakness.

But she had hers, did she not? _Her_ weakness had carried her unconscious form from the great dining hall the previous night, after she had fallen asleep at table. _Her_ weakness had been preparing to board a ship that would carry him away from her just a spare few hours ago. _Her_ weakness was even now sitting in the council chamber, awaiting his judgment.

He sighed, thinking of how much more he preferred the dream from which he had just emerged to what was to come.

* * *

"Someday, you will tell me your name."

"Why do you want so badly to know it?" he asked her, impatiently tugging her down so that she fell against him. Her hair cascaded around his face, the inky waves soft against his cheeks.

"Why do you want so badly to keep it from me?" she countered.

He shifted, rolling to his side, facing her. He threw one leg over hers and draped one arm over her waist, subtly clinging to her, as if to prevent her escape; a desertion only he could foresee.

"I can't even remember it anymore," he murmured, leaning forward, his face nearly touching hers.

"Liar," she whispered before he swallowed her accusation with his kiss, forcing her next words back inside of her with his tongue.

His desire for her was profound in that moment. She appeared to feel his urgency in his fingertips.

"You seem desperate," she remarked awhile later, when he had finally allowed her use of her own mouth. "Almost as if you know something."

"I don't know what you mean."

He attempted to kiss her again, but she resisted, determined to be heard.

_Always obstinate, even in his dreams._

"You can't hide it from me," she said. "I know."

"I have asked you to stay out of my head."

"I do not need to be in your head to see that you are unhappy."

"How can I be unhappy now?" he murmured, trailing a finger down her neck and resting it in the notch between her collarbones. "Everything I want in this moment lies just before me."

She tilted her head and regarded him with sympathy.

"You know that I am leaving."

"I don't want to talk about that," he insisted, petulant, rolling away from her to rest flat on his back. His usually smirking mouth was set in a frown.

She shrugged.

"Talk about it. Don't talk about it. It doesn't change the truth of it."

"Can't I have a moment of happiness?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Can you?"

* * *

He heard her voice, and it was different; heavy with slumber, soft around the edges, slurred. It pulled him out of his dream and he realized that she, too, was dreaming, and she was talking in her sleep. _Ser Ilyn,_ she had mumbled. _Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei._

The girl spoke in her sleep often, and he had heard this list before.

_A prayer,_ she named it.

"Traitor... brother," she sighed.

He smirked and stretched. _I must have fallen asleep in this chair,_ he thought. It had been a long night.

"The Kindly Man," she whispered clearly, and he froze mid-stretch.

_That's new,_ he thought.

"Valar... mmmorrr..."

Her voice trailed off but he understood her well enough.

_She's just dreaming,_ he told himself as she quieted. After a second, he admitted to himself that it was troubling nonetheless.

He watched her more closely after that, shaking off sleep and denying himself the pleasure of drifting back off. The Lyseni still loomed across the room, alternately pacing and leaning against the door, glaring at him.

_He does not love me,_ the handsome man thought, _but he does not need to._ He watched as the boy began pacing again, intermittently flicking his eyes fretfully at his sister.

_He loves_ her, _though,_ the assassin realized as he watched the boy's movements. He wondered, not for the first time, what it as about the little wolf that engendered such depth of emotion and such blind loyalty. Was it some design of hers? Did she plant the idea into the heads of those who surrounded her and wait for it to grow?

The idea that the things he felt were influenced by anything beyond his own wit and reason and experience chafed at him, and he resisted the notion.

_No,_ he decided, _it is not her. I would have felt it if the idea had belonged to her. I would have known._

His mind wandered off to thoughts of his own dreams, and he considered her words to him about leaving.

_They weren't her words,_ he told himself scornfully. _They were your own words, spoken through her mouth._

Still, he knew them to be true. She was leaving today, as was planned all along. She would sail away from Braavos, away from him, and he did not know if he would ever see her again.

An idea presented itself to him then. An idea he had once found preposterous.

He could give her a gift, and then he would have a hope, however small.

He smiled a little to himself, and then he could feel her eyes on him. He turned his head to face her and spoke.

"Your prayer has changed," he observed, and he fervently hoped that she would take his words as warning. He hoped that she understood that if he knew, then his master would know too, and that it was _impossible._ He hoped that she would give up this foolish notion and not do anything stupid and just... _be safe._

He hoped, but he did not believe.

* * *

He had left the girl's cell at the direction of his master. He thought about returning to her later, giving her his gift and bidding her farewell, for the idea that his last moments with her should be spent comforting her for her loss of his brother seemed somehow... unsatisfactory. Even so, he did not relish the idea of tracking her down in her cell in hopes of delivering a proper goodbye ( _the same cell in which his brother had sequestered himself for the very same reason only one night prior_ ). And then there was the fact that nothing seemed to occur within the temple that was not known to the principal elder. He had no desire to divulge things he should not and he had no intentions of betraying the order in any way, but that did not mean that he wished for others to be privy to all of his thoughts. Some things were not meant for others to witness.

_Some things,_ he thought, _others did not need to know._

And so he found himself wandering the docks of the Purple Harbor, waiting for her ahead of her departure.

In the end, they had reconciled, in their way. There was a small part of him that longed to climb aboard _The Titan's Daughter_ with her, but he understood that they all had their parts to play, and his part did not allow for him to leave with her. He was living proof that a man was not helpless in the face of his own desire, for here he was, doing his duty, despite his contrary inclinations.

_A man need not abandon duty for the sake of his heart,_ he thought, wondering how different things might have been had his brother learned that lesson.

And then he thought of her nightly visitations; of her bare skin against his palms; of her sighs through barely parted lips; of the silken fall of her hair brushing his shoulders as she leaned over him. He thought, too, of her confident statement, made night after night; spoken into the grey depths of his dreams.

_Someday, you will tell me your name._

He watched her climb the gangway and then she was peering over the ship's railing at him, waving. His heart began to pound mercilessly beneath his breast.

He gave her a small salute and said, "Gaelon."

It was pure vagary; a capricious impulse that he did not stop to question.

He spoke in a soft voice, knowing that she could not hear him; knowing that even if she could, she wouldn't care. _This_ Arya had never asked him for his name. _This_ Arya did not tumble into his bed every night with the familiarity and ease of an old lover. _This_ Arya was the most important piece in his master's sweeping game of Cyvasse. But he thought that maybe if he told this Arya, then that _other_ Arya, the one who haunted him through the midnight hour, would be appeased and would cease to torment him. Maybe if he told _this_ Arya his name, then that other Arya would leave him in peace, for now that _this_ Arya would no longer be around to be found by him every day, he did not know if he could tolerate dreaming of that _other_ Arya every night.

If he could not have _this_ Arya, he did not wish to be perpetually confronted by her shade.

Gaelon turned to leave and though he could feel the little wolf's eyes on him as he retreated, he did not allow himself to look back.

* * *

**_Don't You Find_** -Jamie T


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment details HM's POV from Chapter 39 of The Assassin's Apprentice.
> 
> This chapter contains possible spoilers for the end of The Assassin's Apprentice. If you are sensitive to the possibility of spoilers, then you may wish to wait to read this chapter until after reading chapter 59 of the larger story.
> 
> For anyone interested in such things, I have created a Pinterest board with pins of things that remind me of both of my ASoIaF stories. The board title is The Assassin's Apprentice/Morpheum (public) or you can search for me using the name Winterlyn Dow if you're interested in seeing which layout of Braavos I reference or how I picture Jaqen and the handsome man, etc.

* * *

 

The Myrish assassin was sparring with his brother in the usual way; the way that couldn't truly be called _sparring,_ because he gave the exercise too much of his effort; too much of his concentration; too much of his emotion, teetering wildly on the edge of his control when he should feel no emotion at all. They used sharp edges, as always. Blood was often drawn. Mostly, it was his own blood, but he did not seem to feel any pain from it (but that was the way with dreams, was it not?) It was the same as it always had been; the same teeth grinding in frustration; the same hope that this time he would find a weakness; the same guarded vexation hidden behind the same careless smirk. It was all the same, which was somehow both comforting and irritating, all at once. It was all the same, until it wasn't.

Until something untoward happened; something which had never occurred before.

He heard a voice, one that was familiar. A woman's voice.

_No, not a woman. A girl. Just a girl._

"Someday, you will tell me your name."

He knew instinctively that she meant the prediction for him and not his brother, and that was strange as well, because wasn't nearly _everything_ she said or did meant for his brother?

Whenever he dreamed his dreams of rivalry and conflict, they were sparsely populated. There was usually just his brother and himself, though occasionally Tyto appeared, if only to frown disapprovingly at him. So the sudden introduction of the little wolf into the arena was surprising to him, and it distracted him from the task at hand. Her voice pulled his attention away from his brother just long enough for the Lorathi's blade to punch all the way through his chest, piercing his very _heart,_ the sharp tip emerging from his back, between his sixth and seventh ribs. The action was more violent, the wound more grievous than was his brother's habit to inflict upon him. He stared down at the steel impaling his chest and vaguely wondered if this change was somehow because of the girl; because she was there, speaking to him, giving him her attention. He barely had time to turn and see her bruised face, then register his own thoughts before he watched all of his life's blood leave him in a crimson gush as his brother pulled the blade from his chest. He was strangely fascinated by the fact that the girl had changed her face back to her own true countenance but only for a fleeting moment before the darkness began crowding at the edges of his vision and he lost sight of her. He had one last thought before he fell.

_What is she doing here?_

Cold, heavy blackness enveloped him completely and then he woke up.

* * *

They both used false names and wore false faces as they fulfilled their duties in the wealthy man's manse; both the duties that were pretense as well as the duties that would be considered more sacred. Her false face was bruised and her false lip was broken, but in his dream, he had briefly seen the injuries marring her own, true face. He assumed that must be the reason he felt disconcerted when he saw her that day, straightening her gown in Biro's solar after the wealthy man had presumably set it in disarray before he retreated to answer his lady wife's summons. The girl wore a plain serving dress that offered some modesty, the one that she had brought with her into the manse, rather the wispy, floating, open gown given to her by her new master. The would-be cupbearer yanked at the laces beneath her throat, tightening them while she shivered slightly, and as he noted it, the handsome man (now styled _Owen,_ which sounded very Westerosi to his ear) felt something odd stirring within him.

_Anger?_ he wondered, surprised. _Concern?_

He made a face, feeling vaguely troubled, and then tried to shake it off. She was nothing to him and did not warrant such a response.

"It is not every day that I see a wolf being cornered by her prey," he remarked, studying his fingernails with a practiced disinterest that did little to assuage disturbing feeling he was experiencing. He did not like the feeling, did not care for _any_ feeling, and he began to note a sort of unreasonable want of small revenge for being made to endure the uncomfortable sensations. He knew that she hated to be called young, or a child, and so he did just that. "Was that part of your plan, child?"

The barb was subtle. He was not sure she would feel it amid the other concerns of the moment.

She scowled.

_Good._

Now she could be disturbed, too.

He wondered only briefly if he should be ashamed of his own petty reaction, but the handsome man rarely felt shame for anything, and so the notion passed rather quickly.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, and for a moment, he thought she was asking why he had called her _child_. "I thought you weren't supposed to help me."

_I lied,_ he thought. _Helping you is all I'm supposed to do,_ but said, "Help you?" in a confused tone, as if he had no idea what she meant. He raised his eyebrows to further convey bewilderment and continued, "I don't know what you mean." He explained how it was really Lady Vorena he was helping even though what he was actually doing was fulfilling his primary mission of keeping a certain acolyte safe and... _unmolested._ Though he had been on the opposite side of the door, he was certain that Biro had been attempting to engage in the sort of behavior that the principal elder had prevailed upon the assassin to prevent. Her undone laces and flushed appearance were all the confirmation he needed.

"Then I suppose the timing of your interruption was merely a fortuitous coincidence?" the girl asked, and he could detect no gratitude in her tone. In fact, her voice seemed to almost drip with sarcasm. _Really, the gall of her..._ He chose to ignore it, though. He could pay her back for it later, with the flat of his sword. Or with a small demonstration of how vulnerable she really was in this manse. Besides, he already owed her for getting him killed the previous night, even if it was just a dream.

"Just so," he replied amiably, as if he had interpreted her question as sincere curiosity. He turned from her and moved toward the door, calling back to her over his shoulder just before he left the room, delivering instructions to meet him in the garden later that night. She seemed suitably surprised and he allowed himself a small smirk and he strode down the corridor, leaving the girl he was guarding in order to find the wealthy man he pretended to guard. In this case, guarding the predator was just as effective as guarding the prey.

* * *

She may have been wearing the face of a Braavosi girl named _Mattine,_ but she still moved like a cat among the shadows of the garden. He watched her with interest from his hidden vantage point among the trees of the grove, tracing her movements as she emerged from the garden door of the manse and glided quietly and swiftly along the path. She was wearing breeches and a man's blouse, ridiculously oversized.

_Probably my brother's,_ he thought, and he found that the notion irritated him, although he could not fully fathom why. He certainly didn't like how close those two has become. Already attached prior to the Lorathi's sojourn in the west, they had become unreasonably so after his return. They would come to grief over it, he was sure. There was no way around it, not with the plans set in motion, unless his brother could be convinced to put some distance between himself and this Westerosi whelp. Truth be told, he had always found his brother's regard for the child perplexing, and a little bothersome.

_More than a little,_ he admitted to himself.

And there was the fact that the Lorathi had practically abducted her in the first place, bringing her to the temple, and with her, all the danger that was sure to arrive in her wake. Had he not argued that point with the principal elder on more than one occasion? Little highborn ladies from one of the most prominent families in all of Westeros could not just go missing without it being noted. The simple act of sheltering the girl could well visit trouble on the House of Black and White, the likes of which they were not prepared to handle. It wasn't the threat of violence or any fear of death that worried him, but the loss of anonymity; the risk of discovery (of their ancient ways, of their internal workings, of their _plans_ ). At the very least, there were like to be questions asked that the Faceless Men did not wish to answer. Training her was a mistake. It was foolhardy. It was dangerous. It was... _selfish._

What's more, if it had been _him_ who had found the girl, he was certain the order would have reprimanded him for bringing her home. But somehow, when his brother did it, it was deemed acceptable. Praiseworthy, even! The elder's usually schooled features had been positively delighted the day Arya Stark walked through the ebony and weirwood doors for the first time. Delighted, and then _immediately_ changed, the elder taking on this _kindly_ visage that was now the only one the girl had ever known him to wear (if one did not count the worm-riddled skull he used briefly to test her).

Still, despite the handsome man's misgivings (which had not abated much during the nearly four years of the girl's time in the temple, despite the shockingly consistent _lack_ of Westerosi knights and sworn men pouring into Braavos looking for her), he had been given orders, and so he stood in the wealthy man's garden, watching her walk toward him, readying himself to train her. She had nearly walked past his hiding place in the dense shadows of the grove when he called out to her, stopping her in her tracks.

"Hello, little wolf."

He saw her halt at his words and change her direction. It was too dark and he was too well-hidden for her to see, but she walked confidently toward him, following her instinct which told her from where his voice had come. When she was close enough to make out his silhouette leaning against a tree, she spoke.

"Well..."

It was an invitation for him to state his business with her, so he did, telling her that she needed to keep up her training. She offered some flippant remark or another, but he brushed it off, anxious to teach her a well-deserved lesson. He had brought training blades with him into the garden and he tossed her the appropriate ones. Before she had even really settled into a stance, he took a swing at her, hoping to catch her off her guard. He did, but she still managed to block the blow effectively.

_The girl has some skill,_ he was forced to admit to himself. He had recently seen her fighting a ragtag group of _Bravos,_ but one could never be sure how much of their confidence in their own skill was genuine and how much was bluster and pretension. The girl had demonstrated remarkable technique and finesse against those gutter peacocks, but that did not necessarily mean she would match up well against a Faceless master. He was of the firm belief that you could not truly assess an opponent without fighting them directly.

He harassed her with a flurry of thrusts and blows, pressing her hard and enjoying the look of pure frustration on her false face. _Owen's_ face, he kept impassive, despite the small sense of satisfaction he felt taking root within him. After a time, the girl seemed to get her feet under her and her blocks became surer. After that, she fought more aggressively and he found himself backing away from her, to his surprise.

"You really are most natural in your swordplay," he commented, still blocking her almost effortlessly. _Almost._ He inquired as to the amount of training she had received prior to her arrival at the temple.

"Just over a year," she told him, and he was not quite sure he believed her. She then made some comment about being under the tutelage of the finest swordsman in all of Braavos.

"Yes," he agreed casually, "your _Syrio Forel_. I have heard you speak of him before."

She did not seem to catch his tone which conveyed skepticism. It was not that he thought she was lying; he knew the girl believed herself to be trained by Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos. He just also knew that Syrio Forel had been dead for well over ten years and there was no way the girl could have trained under him. Someone using Forel's name had found his way into the employ of the Hand of the King and had played the role of the girl's dancing master rather convincingly. It was a gamble-if someone in the household was well-traveled, or had Braavosi connections, they might have known of Forel's passing and been able to reveal the treachery, for Syrio Forel was a man of some repute and his death had not gone unnoticed in Braavos or the surrounding areas. But then again, if there was a great family in all of Westeros less-likely to be apprised of the goings-on across the Narrow Sea than the Starks, he was sure he didn't know which one it could be. Their household was known to be very insular, and not so inclined to gossip as others. So, perhaps it was not such a gamble after all.

He wondered vaguely who the imposter truly was, but he supposed it was of little importance. Some aging _Bravo_ looking for a position in a household that would pay well enough to keep him in gaudy silks and fill his belly with meat and mead, most likely. Someone possessing enough skill with the blade that he would not rouse suspicion. It really made no matter, he supposed. The Faceless master was certainly not one to begrudge a man his false identity, and regardless of who he truly was, the girl's dancing master seemed to have benefitted his young pupil significantly.

"Just so," she said, slashing at him. He ducked under her cut as he heard her say, "So, now you know who I aspire to be like."

_A man moldering ten years in his tomb,_ he thought wryly, but the idea gave him pause. The girl was so frightfully attached to his brother, he had expected to hear her say that she was modeling herself after the Lorathi, not some imposter Braavosi master who had trained her for a mere year with wooden sticks.

"Forel?" he asked, his surprise evident in his tone. "Not your master?" He jabbed at her and she turned his blade despite the fatigue becoming evident in her left arm. "But, Forel was a water dancer."

The girl made some comment about her former dancing master being the finest water dancer who ever lived (and Forel, the _real_ one, anyway, certainly ranked among the finest to ever swing a blade. In living memory, only Tyto Arturis was better. Tyto certainly possessed the skill to be First Sword of Braavos, had his ambitions only been so humble), and she did not seem to understand the source of her opponent's confusion on the matter. He opted to leave that explanation for another day. Instead, he addressed her fighting style.

"This isn't water dancing," he pointed out, leaping back gracefully to avoid her swords as one, and then the other arced toward him. "This is a bastardization of water dancing of which I am not quite certain _Syrio Forel_ would approve..."

She must have found his assertion a distraction, for her false doe eyes took on a faraway look and he used her inattention to his advantage, slapping her thigh solidly with the flat of his sword. The sound of it filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction that reached all the way into his fingertips and made them practically tingle.

"Ow!" the girl growled at him, trying to skewer him in her frustration at being marked. He almost laughed at her clumsy response.

_Forel surely would not have approved of that amateur display,_ he laughed to himself.

They engaged in a dance of give and take, push and pull, their blades ringing against each other and their breaths heavy in the humid Braavosi night. Finally, the girl spoke up. It seemed she had been considering his observation.

"I think Syrio would be proud," she declared, ducking behind one of the trees of the grove as he thrust his sword at her. They stalked each other around the tree.

"Oh?"

She tried to justify her assertion, and perhaps she did an admirable job of it. He could not be sure as he had stopped listening to her, becoming lost in his own thoughts. He caught only a few, scattered words; _seeing_ and _fear_ and _feeling._ He nearly rolled his eyes at her, thinking, _Only a woman would talk about swordplay with so much fretful emotion. What a bother!_ He was so engaged in his internal sneering that he become lazy in his defense. He thought about Syrio Forel, both the real and the false one, and he thought about his brother, wondering how each had shaped this girl ( _she's a tiny bit sniveling_ , he thought. _That is the Lorathi's influence, I think._ ) He was so caught up in his own considerations that the vague disturbance in his head did not alert him as it ought to have; not at first. When he finally recognized what was happening and sensed the danger from her, it was too late. He found himself disarmed then and before he could stop himself, he had responded with one incredulous question.

" _How?_ "

"It may be a bastardization of a respected technique, but it's no less effective," she replied.

"Just so," he agreed, and then, recalling what he had just experienced, he continued. "Very effective. Imagine mastering both this technique _and_ the pulling of thoughts from an opponent's mind."

He studied her expression as closely as the moonlight allowed him to and he thought that he might see some betrayal of emotion; pride at having bested him in her own unique way, or perhaps guilt for relying on her _special talent_ rather than her skill with her blades alone. However, he saw none of this, and so wondered, _Is it possible she doesn't even understand what she is doing?_ He couldn't be certain, of course, but she seemed to be unaware that she probed the minds of her opponents when she fought them.

"Such skill would make you... _unstoppable_ ," he pointed out.

The girl was quiet for an uncomfortable interval. He thought that she was mulling his words, perhaps coming to the realization that her ability to anticipate his moves was part of the same gift that had allowed her to know he was present in the alley when she dueled with the _Bravos_.

But if she had had such an epiphany, she did not share it with him.

"Why are you really here?" the girl suddenly demanded. The question caught him off guard, but he was too much a master of his face to reveal it.

_Loyalty,_ he thought, but did not say. _Obedience. And perhaps... curiosity._

"Why do you think I am here?" he questioned instead.

She was exasperated. It amused him, and a small smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. He found that he smirked rather a lot when he was around the girl.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't ask," was her sour reply.

He laughed as he gathered the training blades, starting to walk away from her and toward the manse. After a few steps, he turned to call to her over his shoulder.

"It seems we are both in need of practice. You will meet me here every night after completing your duties, and I will endeavor to present you with more of a challenge than I did tonight."

He could practically feel her rolling her eyes at him as she followed a few steps behind him. As he emerged from the grove and stepped onto the garden path, he reminded her that her master would wish for her to keep her lessons up as well. She made him no answer and he left her there and returned to his post at the garden door of the manse. After a while, she walked by him, offering him a mocking salute in passing as she entered the manse, presumably to return to her chamber and get her rest. It would be another hour before he was relieved of his post so that he could return to his own bed, not knowing that when he did, he would see her once again, dancing behind his closed lids.

* * *

He was sparring with the Lorathi and Tyto watched them in the distance, frowning slightly. His brother seemed as unruffled as ever but his own brow was beaded with sweat, betraying the true degree of his exertion. The Lorathi moved gracefully, swinging his sword in the effortless way that defined his technique, blocking blows with ease. The Myrish assassin found himself circling a tree that had not been there a moment before, stalking his brother, hoping to surprise him as he rounded the trunk. He lunged to the opposite side of the tree, thrusting his sword and finding that it was turned not by his brother but by _that girl._

"Someday, you will tell me your name," she said as casually as if they had been engaged in long conversation rather than finding themselves sparring suddenly and unexpectedly.

She wore her own face, and her expression was _unconcerned;_ pleased, even.

He put on his best _master's expression_ and said, "Faceless Men have no names."

"Maybe that's true," she acknowledged, jabbing her blade straight at his middle as she spoke, "but all of my friends have names."

"Are we friends then, little wolf?" he asked, one eyebrow lifted, turning side face to avoid a hit as he parried. He was mocking her, but she seemed not to take offense.

"Aren't we?"

He said nothing but began pressing her aggressively, forcing her to retreat.

_Someday..._

He heard the word in his mind clearly, and it was her voice which spoke it. It was as if he could feel a soft caress then, as when a mother strokes her babe's downy curls, but somehow it was on the _inside_ of him.

"Do not presume to use your witchcraft on me, girl," he growled, swinging savagely at her head.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied, arching her back gracefully so that his cut glided over her in a horizontal plane suddenly too high to do her any harm. Her voice sounded so innocent but her impish smile gave away her game.

"You are terrible at ruling your face."

"Am I?" she pondered. "Or maybe I just want you to know exactly what I am thinking right now."

He stood back then, dropping his sword arm as he regarded her skeptically. After a long moment, he offered her a piece of advice.

"You must seek to master your face. If you wish to be a Faceless Man, you shouldn't betray your desires so cheaply, my girl."

She walked toward him, nearly sauntering, and he watched her with narrowed eyes as she raised her palm and cupped his jaw and cheek, lifting herself onto her toes so she could whisper in his ear.

"Somehow, I think you might like for me to betray my desires."

* * *

His plan was to take the wealthy man's daughter to the much-anticipated mummers' show on the docks of Ragman's Harbor, an assignment which gave him the perfect excuse to watch his apprentice earn his face as well as escape the manse _and_ a certain cupbearer for a while. He had _not_ planned on taking that same cupbearer with him. That she had somehow maneuvered her way onto the gondola (and was even now reclining comfortably next to him against red and gold silken cushions) vexed him. He supposed it would make his mission, his real mission, easier since the girl would be in his sight now instead of trapped behind the walls of the manse with the lecherous Biro, but after spending his night first sparring with her in the garden and then sparring with her in his dreams, he had hoped for a little distance to sort out his own thoughts.

_Sorting out thoughts,_ he mused derisively. _What nonsense._

He had never put much stock in dreams (oddly enough, considering the heavy meaning behind his nightly contests with his brother and the occasional observance of the same by Tyto Arturis).

_Why start now?_ he asked himself rhetorically.

_Because this felt different,_ he answered almost immediately.

He shook his head slightly as if to dislodge the annoying line of thinking and then leaned carefully toward the little wolf, whispering in her ear.

"I find it exceedingly interesting that Lord Atius suddenly had a concern that I might not adequately know my way around Ragman's Harbor. He mentioned something about my possibly needing assistance to guarantee the safety of his daughter on this outing."

It was difficult to pour the appropriate measure of venom into a whisper, but he made the effort anyway.

"Oh, yes, that _is_ very interesting. I wonder what made him think it."

He was taken with the sudden urge to slap the insolent expression from her false face.

"Apparently, his daughter," he responded instead. He was a paragon of self-control.

"Oh? Hmm. That _does_ seem strange."

At the look of false concern on her face, his violent impulse returned in a rush.

"She knows the parts of town with which you are least familiar?" the acolyte continued, oblivious to her own peril. "I wasn't aware you were so well-acquainted with Lady Lidia. Is _she_ why you're in the manse?"

He thought briefly about throwing her and her sarcastic tone overboard, but was seized by a better idea. It brought out his characteristic smirk.

"No, little wolf. I believe the reason I am in the manse is entirely to do with you."

_Let her chew on_ that _for a while,_ he thought.

The wealthy man's daughter spoke then, interrupting their tête-à-tête. She prattled on uselessly about the weather and he relaxed back into the overly luxurious cushions, satisfied. The two girls continued talking about their plan for the day and the sellsword-assassin found that their banter grated on him. The little wolf steered her companion toward a plan that must have somehow fit with her own agenda ( _whatever that was_ ) and Lady Lidia happily allowed herself to be manipulated, declaring that since she was nearly six and ten ( _gods, six and ten. He would fall on his own sword before he would ever agree to be six and ten again_ ), she was quite old enough to do as she pleased. He rolled his eyes, but said nothing, flicking aside the gauzy gold curtain draped over the porthole nearest him and gazing out over the water. He was grateful for the distraction that the view provided.

As the gondola pulled closer to the docks, the false cupbearer leaned over to whisper in his ear. The unexpected and warm tickle of her breath wrought a small collection of gooseprickles on his arms which distracted him from what she was saying for a moment. Then it became clear that she was giving him instructions.

He balked.

_She_ was giving _him_ instructions.

He turned to look at her disdainfully, and as she continued to speak, he rolled his eyes, a gesture with which she should have been thoroughly acquainted. He thought then that if he didn't indicate some assent, she might continue to speak and annoy him to the point that he was forced to take action, so he gave her a curt nod, indicating his agreement with her plan.

_Her brilliant, original plan to move the gondola to the canal near the moon pool, because it would have never occurred to him to do that had she not just wasted two minutes of his time telling him to do it. Honestly!_ Just thinking about it made him roll his eyes again.

The trio disembarked and the false sellsword-guard gave the desired instructions to the crew of the gondola, who pushed off again once the party was clear of the small ship. As he followed the wealthy man's daughter and the wealthy man's cupbearer along the docks, the handsome man placed a wary look on Owen's face and dropped his hand to his sword belt, conveying a sense of suspicion and menace to the teeming crowd around them. In truth, he knew that _he_ was the most dangerous thing prowling the harbor that day and had the alert posture not been expected of him, he likely would have strolled languidly along the waterfront, eating a peach, without a thought of his sword. There was no one he could see who would present a challenge to him and besides, he knew more than two dozen ways to quickly kill an opponent without the need for steel. Still, they all had roles to play, and his role required that he at least look as if he were ready to strike down anyone who threatened his charges.

Soon enough, they found their way into the crowd gathering to watch Robert Stone's mummers. That was where they met up with the large Lyseni acolyte and a familiar-looking girl who the little wolf referred to as _Olive_.

_Ah, so this is Olive,_ he thought, remembering that he had seen the girl briefly once at the inn near the moon pool. It was somehow satisfying to be able to put a face with the name he had heard recently (and repetitively) in council chambers. There had been some debate about the wench's fate but the resistance had mostly been offered by the Cat's master and as no one else seemed to care much, the Lorathi had been overruled.

The handsome assassin noted with amusement that the tavern girl did not have the tragic air of doom about her that one might expect, given what was to come. She seemed as lively and vigorous as anyone, but didn't they always? As he watched the little wolf interact with the serving wench, all friendly smiles and fleeting, comfortable touches of elbows and shoulders, he mused that it was a bit like watching a mummer's farce, only this time, it was the audience that knew what was to come and the players who were in suspense.

_How marvelous!_

The little hens clucked together about the upcoming performance and so he turned to the large acolyte and commented in jest that they did not have the numbers; it was three against two and if they weren't careful, they would be overwhelmed with the nonsensical talk of the women.

The boy burst out laughing.

"I think I can handle three little girls!" he sniggered.

_One of them could beat you down with her sword before you had a chance to get in your stance properly,_ the assassin thought, and then, looking at Olive, mentally added, _and another is not a little girl at all. She just might be too much woman for you, foolish boy. At least for now._

But he only smiled pleasantly as the girls discussed their plans for after the show. In truth, he wasn't paying much attention to their babble until a suspicious tone in the voice of the tavern wench caught his attention and enticed him from his pleasant reverie. He tilted his head slightly, his mind replaying the words he had just heard absently but had not truly interpreted yet. It was then that he realized the little wolf had made a mistake. He would need to caution her later that she had to be mindful of details when her lies overlapped in this way.

Still, she recovered nicely, and the wench seemed appeased.

_No,_ he realized with amazement, watching the plump girl surreptitiously, appraising her eyes, her smile, and her tone. _She only pretends to be appeased. She knows something._

He made a mental note to bring this to the principal elder's attention when next they met.

A booming voice called out, quieting the crowd.

"I am Robert Stone!" a white-haired man announced to cheers and applause. It was obvious that the man took pride in his name; his _reputation._

_You should have taken pride in being a stepfather ,_ the assassin mused as he turned his attention to the scene before him and watched the dead man introduce the assassin who would take his life. _Then I might have had a better apprentice and you would have been like to survive this day._

Robert Stone had been a very poor stepfather, though (and a poor husband too, truth be told, as his wife could have attested then had she only lived long enough). The master mummer was guilty of putting out a young boy who, though a talented acrobat with a gift for sleight of hand, was too soft-hearted to be an effective cutpurse. And so it was that a pinched-face six year old named Justan Carver had become no one and Robert Stone had become a corpse, though he did not know it at the time.

_He will know it soon enough._

"Valar morghulis," the master assassin murmured softly to himself.

* * *

He was completely spent, and believed that it meant he would be too tired to dream that night (he was wrong).

It had been an eventful day. Immediately following the bloody scene at the mummers' show on the docks, he had played the part of the dutiful guard and gave chase to the murderous acrobat who had threatened the wealthy man's daughter (of course, the Rat had not actually threatened Lady Lidia at all. He had done something much more dangerous: he had nearly given away the game to the one person who could not be made aware that she was playing it. The Westerosi boy was too hot-headed at times. It would have to be addressed.)

The Faceless sellsword followed his apprentice through the streets and alleys of Braavos. The boy was fast but his master had finally caught him halfway back to the temple. After that, the two assassins adopted a more leisurely speed and spoke in low tones about what had just occurred. Despite the initial rapid pace of their trek, they found that the tiny master, still wearing the face of a young urchin cutpurse, had arrived at the temple before them.

_She must have used a tunnel,_ her brother thought, _or else she has grown wings._

She greeted the duo at the ebony and weirwood doors, leading them down to the council chambers where the elders and masters had gathered for the ceremony.

_Not all the masters,_ the handsome man noted. The Lorathi was missing. The Rat's master gave a quiet, bitter laugh, fairly certain he could accurately guess his brother's whereabouts. _He tempts fate far too boldly. She is not meant for him._

The principal elder began to speak, commanding the handsome man's attention. The assassin left his own thoughts and attended to the matter at hand.

His apprentice had properly completed his assignment and earned his face (so it was attested by the boy's master and his master's sister). The necessary words were spoken in accordance with the traditions of the order, making the Westerosi boy known by his brothers ( _and one sister_ ) as _the Rat_ truly faceless at long last. He had only to complete one more trial ( _a trifle, the principal elder assured him, but one that would require much trust and bravery_ ) and he could take his vows.

The Myrish assassin knew he should feel something, perhaps some pride or a sense of satisfaction that his apprentice had come along and made a success of his endeavor, but he did not. To be fair, he was distracted by the fact that he needed to be elsewhere and only had a short time to travel, but some part of him understood that he simply didn't care that much. And so he took his leave and exited the temple through a tunnel rather than the more traditional route, moving rapidly toward the inn near the moon pool. When he emerged from a hidden doorway in an alley very near his destination, he was surprised to see his Lorathi brother waiting for him on the side of the door.

"A man thought you might travel this way."

"It's faster," the handsome man replied, shrugging. "I'm surprised you took the slower route, considering how anxious you must be to see a certain cupbearer."

"A man was most anxious to see his brother."

"Oh? Then why not stay in the temple? You missed a very moving ceremony." The handsome man's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Jaqen seemed to frown slightly before answering.

"Some things are best discussed in the open air."

"Just so," the Myrish assassin agreed. "Things such as your highborn apprentice."

The Lorathi did not deny his brother's assertion. He wasted no time playing coy.

"How does she fare?"

"Rather well, considering only recently I had to wrest her from Biro's clutches."

As the two assassins trudged together toward the inn, Jaqen's look of distaste prompted his brother to gleefully relate how he had saved the girl from a certain assault. _Owen_ had just finished telling his version of events as they entered the inn and spied the party they had come to find. Shortly after that, the false-sellsword was telling Lidia Biro a pretty tale of how he had pursued a murderer through the streets of Braavos and the Lorathi was striding out of the inn, likely to meet up with his apprentice in an alleyway or darkened alcove somewhere.

_How common,_ the Myrish man thought, smirking to himself.

The false guard stayed with his charge long enough to ensure that she was in good hands ( _Willem_ promised to see her to the gondola once she had finished her meal). He then left the inn, telling Biro's daughter that he would make arrangements with the gondola crew to depart as soon as she and Mattine had concluded their business there.

"I will meet you on your father's gondola, my lady," Owen said with much gallantry.

And that was where Lady Lidia and _Mattine_ found him when they finally deigned to depart the inn.

"My, _you_ look comfortable," the Cat grumbled under her breath when she saw the false sellsword lounging against the plentiful and preposterous tufted cushions. He lazily cracked an eye and regarded her briefly before closing it again.

"Did you find everything at the inn to your satisfaction?" he inquired sweetly.

"Did you find your quarry?" she countered in a hiss.

"I did," he replied in a bare whisper. "Did you?" When she did not answer him, he persisted in a louder voice. "How was the _company_?"

He did not have to open his eyes to know how she looked at him then. He could practically feel her scowl burning his skin.

"Lady Lidia and I enjoyed the fellowship at the inn," the cupbearer finally answered in icy tones.

"Oh, yes!" the wealthy man's daughter agreed, gushing. "It was most agreeable! Such pleasant folk, and _Willem..._ Such a pretty manners!"

Lidia's voice trailed off and the handsome man thought he could hear her sigh. He sat up straighter and grinned at the Cat.

"And how about you, Mattine?" he prodded. "Did you find a young man with pretty manners whose fellowship was _most agreeable_? Or, perhaps a not-so-young man?"

The girl crossed her arms over her chest and looked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the master's question. He laughed lightly and settled back against the cushions once again.

"Oh, that's alright, little wolf," he said in the quietest of whispers which only she could hear. "You may keep your secrets. There is no need to play the ice queen with me."

But the acolyte did not thaw for the whole ride back to the manse. In fact, it wasn't until after he fell asleep that night that she even spoke to him again.

* * *

He was meant to be sparring with his brother but instead, he was all alone. He was waiting, sword in hand, but his opponent was missing, which was strange, because his brother was always punctual.

_Where was he?_

The Myrish assassin felt a tiresome mixture of impatience and worry, irritated that he could not make himself care little enough. He should have been able to easily move onto other amusements, but instead, he remained preoccupied by his brother's absence.

He decided to look for the Lorathi. He searched through the temple and its garden. He walked along the docks of Ragman's and through the Armorers District. He crossed over canals and walked down alleys and peered through windows and into doorways all over Braavos. Finally, he gave up, sitting on the low wall that surrounded the Moon Pool, admitting defeat. It was then that he saw her, his brother's apprentice, wearing that obscene white gown that the wealthy man preferred on her. She was engaged in combat although it may have been more accurate to say that she was dancing. Her pristine white skirts swirled around her ankles and she spun and leapt, gracefully swinging her thin sword as she crossed blades with two _Bravos._

"She has already killed you!" he called out to them, trying to spare the men their trouble. They paid him no heed, but the girl turned quickly to glance at him, and then a smile lit up her face, her grey eyes shining like newly-minted silver stags.

"Ah, there you are!" she called to him brightly. She then turned her attention back to the _Bravos._

He could not see her footwork, obscured as it was by her swaying and swinging skirts, but the way she drifted coolly about the cobblestoned plaza made her seem half a ghost. She moved with a grace that really did make is seem as though she danced, and he found that this dance was alluring to him; seductive. He watched her as he breathed out slowly. The assassin leaned forward slightly, the move almost unconscious, following her intently with his gaze. He found that he couldn't take his eyes off of her and watched with fascination as she dispatched first one and then the other of her foes, their blood slowly spreading across the ground as they fell, staining the cobblestones beneath her feet. She lifted her skirts slightly as she moved over her fallen opponents and he saw then that her feet were bare, the fair skin below her ankles painted red as she moved through the gore. Her back was turned to him, her flesh exposed by the immodest cut of her gown. The skin of her back and shoulders was unblemished and white, and inexplicably, he was overcome with the urge to touch it. He rose, moving toward her, reaching out his hand, his fingers catching her unbound hair and sweeping it over her shoulder. But before he could place his palm against her bared flesh, she spun around and faced him, looking up at him with her wide, grey eyes.

"Someday, you will tell me your name," she assured him.

"No," he told her, his eyes raking down the column of her throat, "I won't."

She gave him a little half-smile and her eyes had a knowing look but she did not contradict him. At least not verbally.

"Were you looking for me?" the girl asked.

"I..." he hesitated, intending to say that he was actually looking for his brother, but then, without really meaning to, he answered, "Yes. Yes, I was."

"Well, you've found me," she pointed out, her voice soft like velvet. She almost seemed to purr. "What do you want?"

He had a sudden impulse to move closer to her, but he ruled it.

_What do you want?_

He thought of the fair flesh of her back, of catching the dark waves of her hair and sweeping them aside. He thought of her eyes, gazing up at him, silvered and smoky and knowing. He thought of the strange warmth that spread in his chest when she called, "There you are!" as if she had been waiting for him all along.

He thought of all those things and he could not find one thing to say which might answer her question.

_What do you want?_ she had asked him, and his thoughts became steeped in chaos and confusion.

_To be dutiful and obedient? To serve my god? To be loved?_

_To hear my name on your lips?_

Here, he swallowed hard and dropped his gaze to the ground; to his feet, and to hers; to the soft leather of his boots and to the crimson-stained toes peeking from beneath her hem.

_What do you want?_ she had petitioned, searching for the substance of his aspirations; seeking to make him betray his desires.

What _did_ he want?

_I don't know. I don't know. I don't know._

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter details some of the background of chapters 23-25 of The Assassin's Apprentice (events leading up to and including the "canal plot").

* * *

 

The handsome assassin rubbed lightly at his temples as he walked toward the low bench in the now-empty training room. It was an action he would not have undertaken had there been anyone present to witness it. He did not often express disquiet or consternation and he prided himself on his ability to restrain his passions; he prided himself on his _facelessness._ He dropped down to sit, the movement naturally graceful, and let out a heavy sigh. His apprentice was being particularly trying of late. The boy had some natural talents, that much his master could not deny, but the pinched-faced acolyte seemed possessed of an arrogance that had not been earned (the fact that Gaelon should be lamenting the arrogance in another did not strike him as ironic in the least). Confidence was an attribute a Faceless Man required but empty conceit could get the boy killed. Today, it had only gotten the boy's wrists severely sprained, rendering him useless in the training room and wasting his master's time.

 _He still has much to learn,_ the master assassin thought, _including a lesson in not crossing a certain angry little wolf._

Still, despite all the sense he seemed determined to show he _lacked,_ the handsome man's apprentice had apparently reached his potential and the master had been assured by Tyto that the acolyte was ready to stand his trial. In fact, all the senior acolytes were due to complete their training very soon.

The assassin's mind flicked to the others who would soon enter the ranks: the large, bearish Lyseni and that wispy Westerosi girl of which his Lorathi brother was always so protective. The boy, Gaelon thought, was graceless but brute strength had its uses. The girl, though... The girl was _interesting._

If he was honest with himself, he would admit that part of what he found so compelling about her was that his master and his Lorathi brother seemed to be inexplicably held in her thrall, in their own way. The signs were subtle, yes, but they were undeniable to anyone with eyes to see. And the girl had some skill, it was true, though he only acknowledged that fact grudgingly.

 _At least she hasn't brought the wrath of half of Westeros down upon the house,_ he thought, rolling his neck to stretch his taut muscles. _Yet._

He considered then that perhaps he had been wrong about the danger she posed to the order all along. Still, he found her presence... _inconvenient._ It had certainly strained his dealings with his brother. And he found that his former master's eye wandered to the girl far too often.

The Myrish assassin couldn't quite understand the interest the principal elder had taken in the girl, even since the moment of her arrival, when she was nothing more than a weak, scrawny stick of a thing, all sharp angles and barely concealed rage born of fear and loss.

She was not so scrawny now, but her rage had not lessened one iota, if he had to guess about it. She might be better at disguising it and channeling it, but it was definitely still there, simmering just below the surface. He could practically _feel_ it every time he was in her presence, though that was not often. He had studiously avoided the girl whenever they were under the same roof. She reminded him too much of something he did not wish to think on.

She reminded him of being left behind.

* * *

"I expect a young woman to seek the gift soon," the principal elder said to the handsome master as they sat across the table from one another, cloistered together in the council chamber. "A pretty creature with dark curls and large brown eyes."

"That sounds much like a contract you only recently gave to one of our acolytes," Gaelon commented.

"Just so," the elder agreed, nodding his head slightly. "The sister."

"Ah."

"She and I have struck a bargain. I have need of her face."

The handsome assassin sat back in his chair and pondered his master's words for a moment. He had not said _she has offered her face_ or _I have agreed to take her face in payment._ No, the elder had said he had _need_ of her face, and Tyto never said anything by accident.

_Interesting._

The assassin knew better than to question his master on the particulars of this bargain. Anything he had need to know, his master would surely tell him.

"See to it, would you?" the Kindly Man asked in his typical bored tone. "Preserve as much of the flesh as you can."

"It will be done," the younger man assured him, beginning to rise from his seat.

"Wait a moment," the elder said quietly, staying the assassin's movements. "There is another matter in which I require your assistance, as well as that of your apprentice."

* * *

The Bear had noted his brother Rat acting strangely all day, but he attributed it to his sulking after their sister had dealt with him so harshly in the training room that morning. The Westerosi boy's wrists were rapidly improving with the ministrations of the tiny master, but the Rat still looked resentful whenever the Lyseni brought up his impressions of their sister's fighting style.

"I asked her to show me," the large boy admitted as they left the small hall following the supper that evening. The boy yawned widely before continuing. "I want to learn."

"You may be disappointed," the Rat answered cryptically, but he refused to say what he meant by that. He had been acting that way, _secretive_ , ever since his master had pulled him aside in the late afternoon. The Myrish assassin had inquired after his apprentice's wrists (which struck the Bear as strange, since the master had never demonstrated any real concern for the well-being of an acolyte in recent or remote memory) and then dismissed the Lyseni with a look and a small wave of his hand. The Bear had assumed the master was going to chastise the Westerosi for allowing such a small slip of a girl to defeat him.

 _And not just defeat him, but destroy him._ The large apprentice touched his own swollen nose in remembrance.

The Lyseni apprentice felt bad for his brother. The handsome master had not spent much time in the presence of their sister when she was training. He was not like to understand how truly skilled the girl was. If he was aware, he would not be preparing to berate the Rat. Later, when his brother showed up in their shared cell, the Bear had attempted to offer condolences and salve the boy's wounded pride, but the Rat had shrugged off the Bear's commiseration.

"We had things to discuss. He wasn't any more cruel or disappointed than he is usually," the Westerosi acolyte replied. "Do not be troubled on my account."

When pressed, he refused to reveal more to his large brother. And ever since then, he had seemed... _edgy; impatient._ He was not willing to discuss the reason behind his mood, however.

The Bear, usually such a light sleeper, slept solidly that night, strangely undisturbed by the typical sounds of the temple in the night (acolytes or priests shuffling along the corridor, doors closing, younger acolytes laughing in play or crying out in their dreams, the trilling and chattering of the temple cat when he had cornered a mouse). The large boy remained oblivious to the strange events which had occurred in the cell next to his while he dreamed. In the morning, his brother said that he, too, had slept well when asked, but the Lyseni noted that his brother did not have the appearance of someone who was well-rested.

"Come on," the Rat said, dismissing his brother's concern. "My master expects us."

The Bear gave the smaller boy a quizzical look.

"There are two sailors who have earned the gift," the Rat explained as he dressed.

 _Earned?_ the Bear mused to himself. _I've never heard it put quite that way._

* * *

Gaelon had never given Jaqen's apprentice much thought; had not considered her _worthy_ of his attention (or, perhaps did not wish to acknowledge all the _resentment_ his rare thoughts of her seemed to evoke) but after speaking with the principal elder, he found himself thinking on her a great deal. He was not entirely happy about that fact; was never grateful to give his time to things which did not either directly benefit himself or his guild. Still, he could not shake his contemplation of the girl. Not after what his master had revealed.

 _A plan, a long time in the making,_ his master had said. _We must be certain of its success._

The Myrish assassin had leaned forward, almost unconsciously, drawn in by the elder's tone of voice and the hushed urgency with which he spoke. It was rare for the principal elder to betray any emotion when he spoke, so when he did, it was notable.

 _She will guarantee the order's ascendancy,_ Tyto had revealed.

Only then had Gaelon begun to get an inkling of why this highborn acolyte was so important to his master. She was no mere servant of Him of Many Faces. She was... _a commodity. Leverage. Insurance._

 _My brother won't like that one bit,_ the Myrish man thought as he recalled all the unseemly deference the Lorathi paid the girl. It had brought a smirk to his lips. _Good._

 _If she is so important, then why risk her life in this manner?_ the younger man had dared to ask his master.

 _It is no risk at all,_ Tyto had assured him confidently. _No risk at all. The risk would be in waiting too long; in letting her master influence her further._

_The elder's voice had drifted off as he considered whatever danger it was that he was alluding to. It was the closest to worried that the handsome man had ever seen Tyto._

The details were sparse. _In due time, brother,_ the elder had said lightly and the handsome assassin had not pressed the matter. Duty was duty and curiosity was one's own burden to bear. His master had said _in due time_ and Gaelon believed him. In the mean time, he had arrangements to make. And, apparently, a face to harvest.

* * *

The handsome man walked soundlessly along the corridor outside of the armory and the storage cells, listening. He heard a faint rustling sound coming from beneath the door of the second storage cell. It was like to be the sound of clothes being tended to.

 _She is here,_ he thought, pushing the door to the chamber carefully open. The hinges were well-oiled and made no sound but he had only the briefest of moments to study the acolyte before she whirled on him. She regarded him warily with wide, grey eyes.

"Valar morghulis," he greeted, his expression neutral. The girl relaxed slightly.

"Valar dohaeris," she replied, bowing her head respectfully.

"I have come for the woman," he told her, switching easily to Braavosi. He nodded slightly toward the naked corpse at the girl's feet.

"Why?" the acolyte asked, catching the assassin off-guard with her impertinence. His own apprentice was trying in his way, but the boy knew better than to question his master on matters which were none of his concern. The handsome man raised an eyebrow and scrutinized the girl's guileless expression for a moment. Something in it coaxed a reply from him.

"Her face has value."

She seemed to accept his answer and moved away from the dead girl so that he might gather her up and take her to his work area, a small room which connected to the repository where the order stored its faces. The assassin had carried his burden to the door and nearly walked through it when he was seized with a notion.

Without turning around, he said, "My brother is most worried about you, little wolf." He was purposefully vague and with that, he left the room, feeling rather satisfied with himself. Now _she_ could have her thoughts commandeered, too, as she mulled his meaning.

Someday, his inability to forgo spiteful little retributions such as this one might be his downfall, but today was not that day.

* * *

The new, talkative acolyte, that young Myrish boy who could not seem to remember that he had _no name,_ was just leaving the principal elder's side as Gaelon entered the main temple chamber.

"Three things?" the handsome assassin guessed with a smirk as he drew near to the Kindly Man.

"Yes," the elder replied without amusement. "Three new things. Two were of little consequence but one of them was... troubling."

The handsome man gave his former master a look of mild surprise. Very little ever _troubled_ the older man.

"It will keep until the morrow, as we have more pressing matters to tend to this day," the Kindly Man decided, "but I'm afraid I will have need of your assistance to deal with it shortly."

"Valar dohaeris," the assassin replied. "I am at your service, as ever."

"I know, my boy, and as always, I appreciate your steadfastness."

* * *

Before he entered the large dining hall for the supper that night, the handsome man saw the little wolf who had occupied much of his thoughts that day (first because she had shamed his apprentice and then because he had been given instructions to complete tasks meant both to test and to protect her). She was crossing the main temple chamber on slippered feet, but then stopped in order to... _talk to a cat?_ He moved closer to the scene.

The acolyte had bent at the waist and reached down to lightly stroke the black and white cat's head. Her movements were elegant, her actions delicate.

"Do you know where she is, little cat?" the assassin heard the girl say in a soft voice. She sounded almost forlorn. He had no idea to whom the little wolf referred. There were only so many _shes_ in the temple, and the little wolf certainly did not mean herself. Did the girl mean his sister? Or the cook?

The mystery remained unsolved as the girl straightened, watching the cat saunter off before continuing on to the dining hall. The assassin was struck by the gentleness of the little wolf's treatment of the cat. This was the same girl who had bloodied the nose of one brother and nearly broken the wrists of another that very same day.

He shook his head and smiled a little to himself, wondering who he would find asleep in her cell later that night: the gentle girl or the ferocious fighter?

* * *

Gaelon arrived at the supper table only seconds behind the little wolf. He greeted his brothers and sister, noting that the girl's master had not yet arrived. His small sister was speaking to his slight and imperious brother about dragons and attempted to draw him into the conversation as well. He listened, distracted, as he surreptitiously watched the Westerosi girl lean forward over her plate and stare into the flickering flame of the taper set before her. Her gaze was at first intent but then it softened with consideration. She appeared entirely entranced.

 _What is she staring at?_ the handsome assassin wondered. She reminded him a bit of a Red priestess, gazing into the flames in search of truth and direction.

"Well?" his sister prodded. He had missed her question, apparently. Before he could ask her to repeat herself, the Lorathi strolled into the chamber. His assembled brethren greeted him in low murmurs. Jaqen nodded politely but then caught sight of his apprentice, gazing into the candle flame, still and silent. As the masters returned to their discussion of dragons, the Myrish assassin watched his brother in his peripheral vision as the Lorathi master passed his hand over the candle flame and softly muttered the words that would extinguish the fire.

Jaqen's action seemed to pull the girl from her reverie and the handsome man noted with some amusement the warning look the master gave his apprentice. She straightened immediately and began to attack her plate with renewed vigor.

 _Very interesting,_ Gaelon thought.

The moment passed quickly, though, and soon even the Lorathi was discussing dragons and the dangers they might pose.

The discussion had an edge to it; an undercurrent of urgency. The order had a history of... _animosity_ with dragons and those who commanded them. Over time, the question had become more of an academic consideration, though, as dragons passed from the world more than a century ago. Now, with the news of Daenerys Targaryen and what she had unleashed back into their world, the servants of the Many-Faced god would have to decide upon a strategy for living in a time when dragons existed once again. With the news the Lorathi assassin had brought from Westeros, it was no wonder that the creatures were a topic of conversation at supper.

The subject meandered around the plans of Daenerys and Aegon, now that they were ensconced in Dorne. The assembled company deferred to Jaqen, as he had been the one to lay eyes upon the dragon contingent during his mission in Westeros. The handsome man only half-listened though he contributed minimally to the discussion to make it seem as if his attention was not divided. Despite the significance of the topic, however, he was more occupied with watching the little wolf and trying to imagine how she fit in to the greater scheme.

_In due time, brother._

"A man believes the dragons will stay in the west," the Lorathi concluded, assuring his sister that it was not the intent of the Targaryens to conquer the free cities of Essos.

 _He may be right,_ the handsome man thought, but then, turning to look at the principal elder as he began to speak, he noted the way those _kindly_ eyes studied the little wolf further down the table. Thinking on what little he knew of his master's plan for Jaqen's apprentice, Gaelon mentally added, _And then again, he may be wrong._

* * *

The Rat was tasked with dousing the torches in the corridor. One by one, the fires died and the passageway became dimmer and dimmer until it was practically black. As the light receded, the Myrish assassin noted the way the shadow hid his master's false features. When finally the darkness completely disguised Tyto's Lorathi mask, Gaelon was left to wonder why the elder had bothered with the glamour at all.

After a moment, the handsome man felt his master's hand on his shoulder, his signal to enter the quiet chamber. He pushed the door open and slid silently inside, pressing his back against the door to allow the others to pass. Before his companions had a chance to cross the threshold, though, he was pierced with a sudden, intense pain in his right arm. He gave an abbreviated cry, muffled by his clenched teeth and then cursed in Braavosi. As the others rushed past him into the room, he grabbed at the hilt of the blade (for it was a throwing knife that had injured him, he now realized) and yanked it out, tossing it to the ground in disgust. Putting pressure on the wound for a moment, he realized it was just the fleshy part of his arm that had been wounded. It could have been much worse. It could have been an artery. It could have been his neck or his heart.

 _I guess it is not the gentle girl we found,_ he thought wryly, _but the ferocious fighter._

He stood back, staunching his wound with his fist as his brothers did their work quickly, binding and gagging the girl after a brief struggle. The stern-faced assassin placed a sack over the girl's head and the principal elder threw the girl over his shoulder. The company trooped quietly down the corridor to the stairwell. When they had nearly reached their destination, it was as if the girl suddenly realized what was about to happen and began struggling and kicking again, crying out against her gag and hood to no avail. She looked rather pitiful, bound tightly, barefoot, in only her thin shift. The handsome man had never been one for pity, however ( _when had any ever been spared for him?_ ) and so he looked away from her and entered the chamber with the iron door in the wall which was used to dispose of those who had sought the gift in the temple.

The quartet of assassins made quick work of their task. The Rat pulled the bolt on the iron door and opened the portal as the elder set the girl on her feet briefly. They all then took hold of her and began shoving her through the door. The bound apprentice managed to catch hold of the iron frame with her fingertips and stop her movement briefly, the upper half of her body perched over the canal. She had lost her hood, the handsome man noted. She managed to bend at the waist, essentially sitting halfway up, to look upon the shadowed faces of the assassins. He was certain she could not make them out, but her eyes were pleading and she focused on the man nearest her, the principal elder. _Did she recognize him somehow?_

A hard shove pushed her past the point where she could halt her own movements and after the slightest hesitation, she was gone, a faint splash following two seconds later. The four assassins stood in silence for a moment, and then everyone began to move to their next task.

The stern-faced master pushed his hood back and left the chamber without a word, bound for the girl's cell where he would remove all evidence of their deed. The principal elder stayed in place, gazing down at the canal through the portal, watching the dark waters with Jaqen H'ghar's bronze eyes. Gaelon sent his own apprentice back to his cell to rest so that he would be ready for their mission in the morning.

 _Westerosi sailors,_ the master thought derisively. He would have no need of the boy's help to perform his task, but observing would be training for both him and his large Lyseni brother.

The handsome man hesitated for just a moment before leaving the room, turning to look at his former master. The elder continued to gaze in silence at the surface of the canal through the small door, his spine straight, his shoulders back.

"Go," the Kindly Man said softly without turning, dismissing the Myrish man. Gaelon left, heading quickly to a door at the end of the corridor, the one that led to the canal tunnel. When he emerged on the bank, he pulled back quickly into shadow and raced along the edge of the waterway, looking for the girl. His heart began to pound, not with exertion but with apprehension; _anxiety,_ even. He scanned the surface of the canal with increasing urgency.

When her pale face broke the water and caught the moonlight, the assassin sagged slightly, letting go of the breath he had been holding. He told himself that it was because he was relieved he would not have to get wet that night. Swimming with his wound would have been unpleasant.

And he had a thing about eels.

But deep down, he knew that at least a part of him had somehow become invested in this girl's well-being. Whether it was because he knew she was important to some larger plan to strengthen the position of the order in the world or for some other, more personal reason was hard to say.

Gaelon watched Arya Stark swim away from him, in the direction of the south bay, and stood in the shadow of the temple, transfixed. He stared after her until she disappeared into the inky night. One corner of his mouth turned up, creating a smirk as he turned to trudge back to the temple. He would have to wake his sister and let her tend to his wound. He had work to do once the sun rose and couldn't afford a handicap.

* * *

 _ **You Haunt Me—**_ Sir Sly


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter details HM's POV from the epilogue of The Assassin's Apprentice (chapter 60). It specifically deals with the section of the epilogue which begins, "The handsome assassin, choosing to occupy himself with various pursuits in Braavos after leaving the girl on her ship, found amusement in the usual way..."

* * *

* * *

"Someday, you will tell me your name," she whispered.

_All of his fleeing had been in vain; all of his efforts to drown out her voice, a failure. He could not leave her behind. He could not escape her, not in his dreams. Here she was, taunting him, as ever, and all the wine and women and steel had not silenced her; could not keep her from him. He was defenseless against her. He was laid bare._

Gaelon's head felt strange—heavy—and he struggled to turn toward the little wolf's voice. The light in his chamber was dim, as it always was, and he saw only hints of her angular features painted in the varying shades of grey which comprised the nighttime of his dream. She appeared to be so close to him, standing there with her black and white acolyte's robe brushing against the edge of his mattress, yet it felt as though she spoke from far away. It took a moment for him to understand what it was she had said to him.

"I already told you my name," he tried to reply but his tongue was thick and uncooperative in his dream, just as it had been as he fell asleep in the strange bed above a raucous tavern, rendered so by fatigue and drink (overwhelming amounts of each). The handsome assassin seemed unable to master his speech just then and his words died on his lips. He stared up at the girl until he was finally able to speak. The words that came to him then were different than what he had originally intended to say.

"I thought you could read a man's most secret thoughts as easily as a maester reads a raven's scroll," the assassin teased the apprentice. "Can you not use your vast talents to ascertain something as simple as my name, little wolf?" He smirked, though he had not meant to; he knew it would displease her.

She frowned at him, the look of disapproval reminiscent of the expression Gaelon had seen so often on Tyto's face when he had been but a young boy, more exuberant in the temple than was considered seemly or respectful. The Myrish man reached out his hand and encircled the girl's slender wrist, pulling her down into his bed in his practiced way. He wrapped her in his arms, erasing all errant thoughts of his former master. As it always did at these times, Arya's woolen robe vanished into nothingness and the bare skin of her back felt cool and smooth under the palms of the master assassin.

"It is not so easy as reading a scroll," the girl grumbled, her pique leading her to attempt to pull away from the master's grasp. He held firm.

"Kiss me then," the handsome man commanded hoarsely. "That is easy enough."

"With the company you've been keeping of late, I'm surprised that you have any want of my kisses," his companion whispered, her words a reproof. Still, she wrapped her lean leg around his thigh and tilted her head up to place her lips lightly against his own.

"Jealousy?" Gaelon marveled when she pulled her face away from his. He raised one eyebrow and looked at her. "Can it be true?"

"Why must I be jealous?" the girl retorted. "It was merely an observation of the facts. I think you must have bedded every whore within two leagues of the Purple Harbor in the past two days. Aren't you exhausted? Or, at least... _sore?_ "

She seemed to be teasing him, but there was something beneath it.

 _Concern,_ he decided, and perhaps... _a touch of hurt?_ The thought brought a queer sort of ache to his chest.

"A ridiculous exaggeration," the assassin declared dismissively. "It wasn't _every_ whore. It was only three. Or, maybe four."

The apprentice growled at him but he pretended not to hear.

"And besides, they weren't all whores," the assassin sniffed. "This most recent one is a serving wench."

"You called her _little wolf,_ " Arya chastised.

"Did I? Well, she does have that chestnut hair," the master remarked carelessly, shrugging. He lifted his hand to the girl's head, gently smoothing her hair back from her temples before threading thick ropes of her mane around his fingers and tugging softly. He enjoyed the feel of it. "Anyone could make the same mistake."

"I'm fairly certain she has white hair, like a Targaryen."

"They all look the same in the dark!" he hissed, losing his humor.

She rolled her eyes. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it.

The girl tucked her head beneath Gaelon's chin, pressing her cheek against his neck. He started to relax but then she sighed, "Will this make you happy?"

The master was silent for a long moment, and when he finally uttered his quiet reply, he sounded bitter.

"Since when do you care about my happiness?"

"I don't know when it happened, precisely," she admitted, lifting up onto her elbows to gaze down at his face. "Does it matter when?"

He glared at her, his look both skeptical and irritated, but he made her no answer.

The girl's own look was imploring as she said, "The point is, I do. I do care."

"Bah!"

Arya looked at him sympathetically (or, perhaps it was patronizingly—it was hard for him to tell in the dim light streaming through his small window). Shaking her head slightly, she smiled and then dropped her lips to his neck, trailing kisses there. The girl moved slowly, softly, making goose flesh of his skin. He fought it briefly, but then surrendered his control and shivered.

The apprentice nuzzled Gaelon's jaw, murmuring, "You have no right to be angry with me. You know it wasn't my choice to leave."

He was torn between allowing her to continue uninterrupted and speaking his mind. Finally, he could contain himself no longer.

"Perhaps it wasn't your choice," he allowed, "but if you _had_ been given the choice, you would not have chosen differently." As he knew she would, Ayra stopped kissing him and pulled back to look into his eyes. Her expression seemed to be filled with sorrow, though whether for herself, or for him, he could not be sure. The girl drew in a steadying breath and Gaelon braced himself for what she was about to say.

"Are you awake, my love?" she asked. "I can get you something to eat if you like. Are you awake?"

* * *

The silver-haired serving girl was gently shaking the Myrish assassin's shoulder, pulling him from his dream. When he cracked an eye and saw her smiling shyly down at him in the early-morning light of her mean little room above a popular tavern, he groaned and suppressed the urge to slap her for waking him; for interrupting his much-needed rest. _And for pulling him from the arms of another._ His head was pounding and he grasped desperately at the edges of his dream, trying to call the little wolf back to him as he squeezed his eyes shut. After a moment, he realized it was folly and gave up.

"Are you hungry?" the naked wench prodded him as he sighed in annoyance and opened his eyes again.

 _Yes,_ Gaelon thought, _but not for food._

He looked at the smiling girl before him and remembered the past day and a half of nakedness and drink and blood. Lust and violence and pain all coalesced for him then, weighing him down like a stone placed on his chest. The assassin allowed himself a small frown, wishing he could be confused, mistaking his memory for a dream; hoping for his recollection to be indistinct, made hazy by wine and overindulgence.

Alas, it was not.

He never recalled anything through a haze; his senses and insight were never dulled to him. Drunkenness and wantonness provided only the most temporary of reprieves. It was his gift and his curse, a trait which made him valuable within the temple and to the Many-Faced god. It was the gift of total recollection; an involuntary and uninvited attention to detail. The Myrish assassin could not be drunk enough, debauched enough, exhausted enough, or altered enough to lose his focus (but that did not mean he hadn't tried).

His focus and recall was such that he had been unable to force himself to mistake this bright haired wench for another girl (one dark of hair and dark of heart). He had tried to close his eyes and simply imagine her, but when he thought of the absent girl, the present one would speak and wipe away the image he had conjured so carefully.

Perhaps it was for the best. Had he been able to convince himself, he might not be so willing to return to the temple when his duty required it.

"You look tired, my love," the girl said sweetly, placing her palms on either side of his face. Her hands were far too soft. Her touch felt wrong, somehow. "I'll go to the kitchen and get you something. You just rest here, and I'll feed you when I return."

He didn't protest. He didn't say anything. He just watched her slip on her worn shift and leave the room, humming.

He knew what she thought. He understood what she wanted of him. The wench saw some sort of life together; a future with a man she had assumed would be helpless against her considerable charms. He was richly dressed when they met and she must have thought herself fortunate to have ensnared a man of means.

When she returned with bread and fruit and began feeding him bites, he thought perhaps it was time for him to say something. He had made her no offer, had not hinted at any match he could enter into with her. He did not need to employ sweet words or grand gestures or empty promises to win a woman's affections or inflame her passions, and he would not resort to it. Perhaps it was primarily his pride (his damnable pride) which dictated his behavior, but he found his life was simpler this way and he had managed to avoid inconvenient entanglements for years in just this manner.

The serving wench prattled on airily, holding figs to the assassin's lips and then bits of bread as she painted images for him of a little home above a shop or by the water and fine, fat babies in rocking cradles. The handsome man rolled away from her and onto his side, plagued by the realization that he had stayed too long. The silver-haired girl sidled up next to him, running her hands through his thick, black hair.

"Do you think our sons will have your dark hair or my light?" she asked him, giggling.

He would have disabused her of her silly, romantic notions, but he found it difficult to get a word in edgewise. The more she spoke, the more plain she made it who she was. It was even plainer who she was not. After enduring a quarter hour of this nonsense, Gaelon found himself driven to kiss her because it was the easiest way to stop her talking. He was not particularly attracted, though the girl possessed a sort of obvious beauty. But she had none of the darkness, none of the savagery he required. Her unrelenting optimism irritated him. He found himself bored by her artlessness. He lamented her utter lack of _threat._ Still, to mask his own creeping discontent, to smother his misery, and to prevent her animated chirping from driving him completely mad, he took her again and again. Over the course of their time together, any reasonable person could surmise the assassin had a hunger for the wench even though his hunger was really for peace. Still, the girl was only privy to Gaelon's actions, not his thoughts (and certainly not his demons), so perhaps he should have been more sympathetic when she told him she was sure she loved him. Instead, he was annoyed.

Her name was Lyyrillene or perhaps Luuriline (he wasn't quite sure which; he had not paid particular attention when she introduced herself. As he recalled, he had been more focused on her ample bosom and on consuming as much wine as possible than on what she was saying as she deposited herself onto his lap without petition or inducement.) The name was from an almost extinct dialect of Old Valyria. It meant something like _melodic_ , or _sweet-sounding_ , but that wasn't exactly right. It was hard to translate into Braavosi, a tongue created by hardy freedmen who had tried throughout their history to distance themselves from that doomed place which had oppressed their ancestors.

This girl, _Luuriline_ (he was almost sure), was as different from the girl who occupied his thoughts as she could be. The wench possessed hair so blonde it was nearly white, but her skin was deeply tanned from time spent out of doors, trying to entice patrons into the dim and dank wine sink which employed her. She was buxom and chatty, two things which had initially served to distract the assassin from his burdensome thoughts (and two things which had annoyed him less when he was much more full of drink than he was at present).

When he had had enough, he tossed her a bag heavy with coin.

"But, m'lord," she gasped in surprise, "I told you, I didn't need your coin."

"Take it," he commanded. He wished her to forget any thoughts of rescue. He was not even capable of saving himself, he thought wryly.

"I'm no whore!" she cried, throwing the money back at him. It landed with a thud at his feet as he pulled his blouse over his head.

"If you were, I should not judge you for it," he told her, his voice suddenly gentler. _No, not for that. Rather, he would judge her for something completely beyond her control; for not being someone else entirely._

"But..." she started, looking desperate. "I love you! I do! And... I..."

He sighed, saying nothing, impatient to be gone. Sensing she was losing him, the wench flung herself against him, grasping at his collar, trying to force him to look at her. He kept his eyes trained over her head, his hard stare fixed on the wall behind her.

Luuriline cried out, "You said I was your little wolf! You said you had no one! That you _were_ no one! You... you _wept_! I don't know what ails you, but I can soothe it! You can't leave here. You're... you're _broken_! You said so!"

Gaelon grasped her hands firmly, pulling them off of him and stepping away from her. The look he gave her was fearsome, but it was a mask meant to hide the sharp pinching in his heart as he recalled those words that had once been spoken to him by another.

As he turned toward the door and strode away, he said to her what was once said to him.

"We are all of us broken."

And then he was gone.

* * *

Leaving the tavern quickly behind, the handsome man walked in the direction of the temple. His path took him from the vicinity of the Purple Harbor and through the market. It was there that the assassin passed a spicer's stall and noted a hint of cinnamon oil and cloves in the air. Without meaning to, Gaelon found himself remembering a time long ago, when two boys, perhaps just shy of their tenth year, still strove to master Tyto's lessons. He recalled how he and his brother stole from their cell in the acolytes' corridor and moved silently on bare feet into Umma's kitchen to snatch crumbs together. They always found two hunks of spice cake hidden away (though not hidden very thoughtfully). In the way that childhood truths remain unchallenged until something triggers further examination years later, it had only occurred to the Myrish master recently that Umma had known of his and Jaqen's thievery all along, and had sought to assist the boys in their mischief.

That the cook had indulged them (that she has indulged _him_ ) in such a way was immensely touching to Gaelon. Thinking on it brought a sad smile to his handsome face. It was truly the only indulgence he had ever known. Indeed, until recently, it had very nearly been the sole kindness in his life.

_Until a ferocious girl had tempered her rage to offer him her friendship; until a vicious orphan had recognized in him his staggering losses and his vast need; until a savage wolf had understood the brokenness inside of him and had been sympathetic to his pain._

_That this same girl had been the architect of his greatest loss and therefore the instrument of his most exquisite aching was an irony not lost on the assassin._

"Damn her anyway," the master muttered, quickening his pace. "She's well and away, and we're all the better for it."

He did not allow himself to dwell on Arya Stark further just then, either the Arya of his dreams or the one he had left on a Braavosi ship two days past. He was a servant of the House of Black and White and his lot was to work to fulfill the will of the Many-Faced god, not wallow in some misguided remorse over things that were not meant to be or things that once were but endured no longer.

His thoughts flicked to his brother then, but just as quickly, he dismissed the Lorathi.

"And damn him, too," Gaelon growled, the corners of his mouth turning down. He had no more time for grief now than he did when he had walked away from _Titan's Daughter_ after foolishly whispering his name to the little wolf high above him. It was his need to avoid his grief that had led to his two licentious days. He could ill-afford another such commission. Certainly, by now the principal elder would be looking for his return. The Lorathi master's fate had been one of his own choosing. Gaelon could have prevented what happened no more than he could have prevented the Doom of Valyria. There was no profit in ruminating.

Still, upon his arrival at the temple that morning, there was something deep within the Myrish man which led him down the masters' corridor and past his own chamber. There was something inside of him which pushed him to place his hand on the latch to his brother's door. There was something which pulled him into Jaqen's cell; some _urge;_ some _need;_ some _truth._

On the other side of that door, Gaelon found something he never expected: his brother, _alive._

A cavalcade of emotions marched through him then; a litany of questions; a deluge of realizations. The handsome man could not grasp them all; could not decide which ones to voice. Instead, he simply said, "Oh." He sounded bored, but that was a lie. He sounded removed, but that was farce. He sounded arrogant, but that was merely armor.

Friendship. Pride. Love. Hate. Fear. Resentment. Jealousy. All of it beat mercilessly against the inside of his skull, creating a chaotic disarray of feeling he was unable to master. Try as he might, he could not set it to rights.

There were those things he knew to be true (deep down) but could not admit, and then there were those things he was willing to admit but which were not altogether true.

In the end, he was left wanting. What he desired, he could not ask for. He did not know how. And so, rather than struggle to be heard, he simply walked away.

In the end, he was left Faceless. The skin he had worn for so long was not easily shed. He was too fearful of what might remain underneath.

In the end, he was left, just as he had always feared he would be.

* * *

 _ **The Perfect Space**_ —The Avett Brothers


End file.
